“As a _____ woman…”

Accepting our divide

By Melita Little

Last year, I confronted something about myself I had been purposefully ignoring — I think for my own mental stability.

I was raised in a tiny rural town in central Alabama. The town is situated in what is geographically known as “The Black Belt.” Originally the term was used to signify the color of the soil in the region, but later became a signifier for counties where the Black population outnumbered the white.

My town had a population of about 800 when I was a kid, and has since dwindled to about 500 residents. Remarkably, not everyone knew each other. A number of houses were on their own private dirt roads, and the ones that weren’t were in neighborhoods that were largely segregated by race. White-owned homes were primarily near the center of town — where the one grocery store, post office, and bank were. Black homes were in various clusters on the outskirts. The racial makeup of the town was around 60/40 Black to white.

The white children were bused away to a private Christian school. The segregation wasn’t hidden behind polite reasoning like “test scores,” the reasoning behind their decisions was explicitly and loudly racial. My mother later told me the mother of the only white children in our school was harassed by other white parents for her decision to essentially integrate the school. The words they used against her were abusive and derogatory.

Growing up in that environment never felt right to me. I had to put up with random acts of racism, including being called the “N word” for the first time at age seven. But my mother raised me and my siblings not to be judgmental. She never carried any obvious resentment against the white people she interacted with in our town. If anything, she seemed to pity them for their limited worldview.

Still, growing up with that tension constantly boiling below the surface took its toll on me. Interactions with white people often left things unsaid. On one level, there was what was actually happening in the moment, often pleasant and respectful interactions. At the same time, I knew full well that the person didn’t want their child in the same classroom as me because our skin was different.

The mental gymnastics one has to do to simultaneously ignore the elephant in the room, wonder how they really feel about people of color, and all the while return their pleasantries with a smile no matter how difficult, is the source of stress for myself and others in marginalized groups. It is a quiet acceptance that we developed to cope in unwelcoming environments where we’d like nothing more than to just blend in.

Moving to the Northeast for college allowed a much needed relief from the very specific challenges of growing up in the deep south. However, I quickly learned that although they were more or less my ideological counterparts, that couldn’t make up for our vastly different upbringings. No matter how well-meaning someone may be, ignorance is ignorance and it can often lead to offense. I found myself performing the same mental gymnastics that I learned growing up: “Is this person just misinformed, or racist? How do I respond? Do I have the mental bandwidth to deal with this right now?” In this way, going to a private liberal college in the northeast was just as emotionally exhausting as living in the rural south.

This revelation about how taxing it actually is to handle a plethora of what we now call “microaggressions” came to a head during the 2016 election. The climate of emboldened racists, Twitter debates about what actually constitutes racism, and the uptick in reported hate crimes made the uncomfortable feelings I’d been disregarding since college bubble up to the surface — literally.

That fateful night, when the outcome of the election became clear, I accepted the loss and made my way home. While changing into my pajamas, I noticed I had broken out in hives all over my chest. It turned out that consciously I was fine. But I was ignoring my subconscious feelings. I was ignoring the amount of frustration, hurt, and anger my country had caused me, not just during the election but also growing up in the deep south.

A year later, we’ve seen many groups come under attack from the current administration. So often, people who identify as female will have some sort of descriptor or challenge that they have to contend with on top of being female: Muslim, immigrant, LGBTQIA, poor, etc. And though many of us have migrated to supposedly “liberal havens” we still have to contend with microaggressions and sometimes outright hostility.

Today, and moving forward, I approach life by accepting people as they are: no better, no worse. I believe people when they show me who they are. If I feel challenged for my beliefs, I respond by explaining my truth, plainly, and with a zen-like serenity — if I have the mental bandwidth to respond at all.

This isn’t an attempt to sway them to my side. I merely respond to a conversation they started. I’m no longer interested in convincing other people to believe my ideology. I accept the fact that it won’t happen in a crowded, noisy bar on a Saturday night. It won’t happen in the middle of a meeting with half my co-workers watching. Change is quiet, personal, and persistent.

I’m now operating on the belief that me being me, my flawed yet compassionate self, will chip away at the hatred. I’m not saying that merely existing is enough. I am saying me combating injustice in spaces where I feel comfortable, and supporting people who are doing the same, is enough…at least for now.

Our country is changing. We’re all experiencing growing pains right now. I support the mentality to #resist, but I believe that while we continue to resist the clown car that is attacking our country it’s really important to stay grounded in reality and believe people when they show us who we are, no matter how awful or beautiful.

Believe he’s determined to build a wall, believe he thinks all Haitians have AIDS, believe he thinks there’s a massive conspiracy against him…and then act accordingly. You might not be able to sway his supporters who have the same mentality, but you can politely correct them using the facts you have (because you’re now addicted to the news) and proceed to support and patronize organizations who are doing the work to combat it. Also, therapy is amazing.

I’m a Black cis-heterosexual woman, so what I’m able to do and what you’re able to do may differ. This is my current tactic. It’s not a one-size-fits-all, but it allows me to be honest, open, and active — three things I think we need now more than ever.

Melita Little is a Brooklyn-based freelance content writer and strategist.

MARCHROOTS is a project of MARCH ON. We’re working at the national, state, and local levels to harness the power of those who marched on January 21, 2017 and take that passion straight to the polls in 2018 and beyond. We’re not afraid to resist, question everything, reach across the aisle, show up for what we believe in, and laugh to keep from utterly losing it.

Right now the movement needs YOU to take a poll. And hey, while you’re at it, host a party! Operation Marching Orders puts the marchroots — that’s you! — square in the center of the movement. This movement belongs to all of us. Head to www.operationmarchorders.com to register now.